you weren't directly outside the class, you were always down the hall. far down enough to be inconspicuous to any eye - but i knew you were waiting for me.

the first time i didn't think much of it - but then it happened again, and again - again - again.

you wouldn't talk to me - i'd walk by and you'd nod, but your eyes followed. i could feel the ink licking the back of my neck.

finally i came to a stop, my shoes clicking ceasing on the stone and my throat bent - what do you want?

your head tilts - curls falling - pardon?

why are you here? you've never been here before. don't you have your maths?

i could see your jaw tick at the muggle term - good, i like annoying you.

i'm head boy, i'm simply overseeing the hall - you grin - don't think yourself special, berkley.

my eyes narrow - i don't care, not really. but i might as well act like i do since that's what's expected of me - fuck off.

i turn on my heel, skirt lashing at my thighs - one, two , one, two - my own lips tug as the sharp tap of your shoes fall in step next to mine.

mind your tongue.

mind yours.

i believe you're the only one who's spoken out of turn.

says who?

you eye me, hands in your pockets - amused. no one speaks to you the way i do, i'm sure of it. in fact - i see most often tend to avoid you. why is that, tom? even your friends seem cautious.

what class do you have next?

why don't you just ask me for a copy of my schedule since you're so interested.

i'm not interested.

i beg to differ - i laugh, more so cough - books clutched to my chest, i don't know why i'm grasping them so hard but my knuckles bleed white.

you don't say anything, just staring - expectant. i sigh, hating how my resolve crumbles - it's pathetic. nothing, that was my last class.

let me walk you to the dungeons, then.

why?

why not?

i glare - the words rise in my throat like bile and i can't help but spit them out - why are you talking to me? i don't trust you.

you do your faux laugh - i hate it - clever girl.

i hate that i blush even more.

and so this cycle continued - it wasn't much, but in some sick and sad way you were my only friend - no that sounds wrong... acquaintance?

i had no one else to talk to.

being a muggleborn in slytherin made me a walking taboo.

no, not everyone was vile to me. but being seen with me for longer than necessary was considered criminal.

i didn't realize how lonely i was until you started to keep me company - damn you, tom riddle.

damn you for giving me something i was ignorantly craving.

we had our nights in my library and the walks after divination.

that's all - but i found myself looking forward to it nonetheless.

damn you.

even considering it as company seemed ill fitting - most of the time we didn't even talk. it was just silence and ink - huffing of smoke - perhaps a muttered how are you?

i don't need anyone - i never have, i won't let you change that. i can't afford it.

you appeared to know that as well - seeing as you seemed to be rather talkative one night.

may i ask about your parents?

my grip tightens on the pages of my book - the moon shrinking back at bit at my shift in demeanor. i've never talked to anyone about my parents.

what about them? as i'm sure you know, they're muggles.

yes, and i'd like to know about them.

why?

curiosity.

but why.

your pale hand reaches out, splaying over the black ink - looking like a white spider on black webs - and you lower my book.

staring - it's very unnerving - the ink in them looks poisoned.

i would like to know more about you.

why?

you pull the cigarette from your lips - smoke pluming as you speak - does there have to be a reason?

with you, always.

fair enough - i just want to know.

why?

your eyes narrow - you're getting annoyed - good.

i'd like to consider us - you pause, gesturing between our bodies, debating and the skin between your brows crease - friends.

i laugh - you frown.

problem?

my shoulders shake - you're unbelievable- we're not friends.

you wound me, berkley.

no i don't - i'll tell you about my parents - or more, but i get to ask you questions too. and you have to answer. deal? my hand reaches out across the table, you eye it for a moment - smoke tingling my nose and i want to cough but i don't - deal.

your hand envelopes mine - warm - rough - large. hands that have done work - or horrors. both - same difference. but the moment your skin touched mine i felt infected - the ruined ink that filled you up sank into me and i felt a chill ravish at my veins.

i let go and the air gets lighter - or perhaps that's the nicotine making me dizzy.

you first.

i've already asked my question, berkley.

i sigh - i don't want to tell you but i don't see a point as to why not. besides, i have to keep your attention somehow.

they're dead.